


Recompense

by kryptic



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gore, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kryptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daud rots, Corvo grieves, Jessamine wakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bargaining

His things - what things he has - have been packed.  He has decided that he will not tell the men of his departure.  Soon enough, they will learn that the powers they inherited begin to fade as he distances himself from them – headed to Serkonos in the southern seas, intent on tracing back to where he began.  Maybe he will discover where it has all gone wrong.

The night is hot and muggy, as are many in the slums of the Flooded District.  The humidity might precede an impending rain, announced by a dull aching in his bones.  He lies awake, staring at the ceiling in a fashion that has become almost ritual.  The audiograph player has been moved next to his bed, yet another method of tormenting himself.  His own voice crackles in the stagnant air, making him flinch.  Daud can hear his soul coming apart on record.

It is almost a relief when he feels the mark itch on his hand.

The vacuum of the Void seizes him and draws him in.  The colors around him flare, then dim, and the air grows thick and strangely suspended.  Breathing is laborious, as if he is trying to swallow the oxygen rather than inhale it.  And he hears the familiar voice in the darkness just an instant before he sees its owner.  There is a smug smile on his face that makes Daud vaguely uncomfortable.  He knows this is not a social visit.

Black eyes study him with veiled satisfaction.

“I’ve been listening to your whispers, my dear.  The endless confessions that you spout in the dark.  ‘ _I’d give back all the coin if I could_.’”  The light tenor of the Outsider’s voice is twisted with mockery.  His hands are folded behind his back, his coat neatly buttoned to his throat.  Daud’s chest, by comparison, is bare.  The assassin stands straighter as the monologue continues, words spoken in the slow and lilting tones which he knows so well.

“Would you give it all back, my faithful initiate?  For the empress?  A woman who never even _knew_ you.  And yet your remorse for her death has begun to destroy you from the inside out.  But I’m nothing if not generous.  In fact, I think I’ll grant your request.  And we can see how far your … _admiration_ for precious Jessamine extends.”

The way he turns back before departing is obviously meant to seem as an afterthought, but it carries all the carefully practiced grace which announces that the Outsider has been planning this encounter for some time.  The deity speaks a phrase of only two words, but they dig into Daud’s brain like parasites and send shivers down his spine that spread straight through his ribcage when he wakes gasping in his bed.

“…You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

Corvo, on the other hand, receives no such vision.  There is no warning when he startles into consciousness in Emily’s bedroom – where he has slept since Kingsparrow – with the sand of dawn streaming through the window and lancing into his eyes.  When he rises to see not the young empress, but her mother, clad in her camisole and still as death, splayed across the bed in exquisite beauty like the heroine of an ancient tragedy.

His heart jumps into his throat and he chokes on it, trying to swallow down the bitter tonic of his own disbelief.  It is a long, stagnant minute before he can pluck up the courage to touch her.

Horrified, he inches forward and presses a hand to the smooth, pale skin of her shoulder.

The grey eyes snap open.  She gasps.  A breath rattles in her throat before she can find enough strength to speak.

“Corvo…”

Her voice has a thin, labored quality that reminds him uncomfortably of a weeper.  He finds himself bending forward, looking her over for any sign of the plague, but her eyes are clear and her skin is taut and her cheeks are just beginning to flush with pink as if she has just come inside from a long trek through the cold.

This has to be a dream or some cruel trick of the Outsider – there is no other explanation.  But the apparitions in the Void have never moved nor spoken to him before, and only one of his artifacts has ever been given a voice.  Corvo reaches for the same object now, groping for the Heart which he carries with him always.  But his coat pocket is conspicuously empty.  His hand comes away clutching nothing but a memory.

Just before panic strikes him, he hears Jessamine’s voice again.  The whisper sounds in his ears, not his mind, the way it used to.  As if she is real.  If she is real.  He hasn’t yet decided.

It is a soft, agonizing moan that complements the furrow on her brow and the pained grimace on her lips.  It is followed by another, louder this time, as she clutches desperately at her chest.  Corvo grasps at her hands, feels her squeeze them with surprising strength.  Her eyes track him wildly like those of a wounded animal and her throat presents itself in sculpted porcelain, waiting for the mercy stroke.  Her chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow spurts.  Her first attempt to speak disintegrates into a volley of coughs which shake her entire frame.  She raises the sheets to her mouth to stifle them before pulling away in horror.  Blood dots the white fabric in a constellation of red.  When she glances as him, he sees that it is splashed across her lips and chin as well.  Corvo winces and raises the sheets to wipe her face clean, takes deep, soothing breaths with her as she tries to will away the pain.  It takes her at least a dozen lungfuls of air to force out a single sentence.

“Corvo—why?  What’s happening?”

His jaw falls open.  All he can do is shake his head uncertainly, caught between waking and dreaming, belief and disbelief.  This isn’t like Jessamine.  Even when she’d been in labor with Emily – even when she’d been _dying,_ bleeding in his arms – she was quiet, collected.  She measured her words by the grain, calculating and composed.  His empress.  She should know what to do.

Though it has been months since he’s bowed to her, sought her advice, bent to kiss her hand like a pagan at an altar, Corvo reverts easily back to that state of almost childlike need.  He grasps at her fingers, the firmness of his touch adumbrated with pleading.  There is no one to fight, no one he can raise a fist or a sword to.  He feels painfully helpless, a sensation which he is experiencing as of late with ever-increasing frequency.

“I—I don’t know, Jess.  I’m sorry.”  It is pathetic.  Weak.  He should be able to do more for her.  It is this revelation that makes Corvo decide this _is_ a dream.  He’s had so many of the same kind in the seemingly endless stretch of days both before and after her death.  They woke him as he toured the Isles on his doomed diplomatic journey, when he started back to consciousness between torture sessions in the bowels of Coldridge Prison, in the dead of the night and in the early morning when the painful realization that she is _gone_ , will always be _gone_ , grips his heart.

But that doesn’t make it any less real.  Even in his dreams, Corvo scrambles to help her.  Lays his hands bare to the bone to save even a passing specter of Jessamine.

“You’re with me, Jess.  It’s going to be alright.  Just look at me.”

And she does.  By the Void, she does, and he does not like what he sees.  Grey eyes brimming over.  If they are windows to her soul, either one or the other is broken.  He tries not to think too hard on that, but the revelation finds him anyway.  It isn’t long before he’s biting his tongue in grief and frustration, feeling the hot sting of tears.  No matter how many times he dreams the dream, the agony is still as piercing.

“It’s going to be alright, Jess.  Please.”  He isn’t sure why he’s begging, but his voice is bleeding with desperation.  “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

What _isn’t_ wrong?

She closes her eyes again, a small, tortured sound catching in her throat.  But she is trying to calm herself, bless her, laying back to file away the panic and fear.  He can see the battle raging across her face – the twitch of a muscle with another pang of pain which she makes a concerted effort to smooth away a moment later.  Knowing that she loves the sound of his voice, that it soothes her, he simply keeps talking.  Anything he can think of, foolish or not.  The first thing that comes to mind.

“Jess.  Jessamine.”  He gives a humorless laugh like a nervous teenager, licking his lips and trying to force a smile.  “You know I love you?  I always have.”  It is that sentence which transforms him back into a man, solemn and still.  Among his greatest regrets was failing to confess that to her enough.  It had always been rushed, a romance hidden away and sandwiched between more important engagements.  His resentment was tempered with the rationalization that at least he had known her, gotten close to her in any capacity before the end.  It is a consolation worth very little now that she is dead.

“You were the best thing in my life.  You and Emily.  You made me a man, Jess.  Made me whole.”  He doesn’t even notice the tears now, collecting on his chin and dripping onto his collar.

“Do you remember when we first met?”  The following laugh is genuine this time.  “I was so afraid of you.  Angry, too.  I missed Serkonos terribly.  But when I saw you, I realized – even if I didn’t want to – that I could never betray you.  You had me from the very first moment.  You were my best friend.

“And when we used to walk in the gardens after you had to sit through meetings all day?  You liked to stretch your legs and complain about the diplomats, and I would just nod and offer to ‘take care of them’ for you and act disappointed when you said ‘no’.  When I used to stand at your shoulder and glare at anyone who spoke to you during dinner.  When you were too tired to think of any good stories for Emily and you asked me to tuck her in.  Do you remember that?  Should I tell you a story now?"

She only nods her head; it’s all she can manage.  Corvo understands, and he knows the perfect one.

He tells her about Marcelo – his personal favorite – and his journey for the empress over the sea.  Emily had teased him for it years ago, claiming that it was far too romantic, and Jessamine had a private laugh at his expense as well.  He hopes that memories of their past jibes will make Jessamine smile again.  He’d like to see her smile before the dream is over.


	2. Denial

Daud rolls out of bed and rises shakily to his feet.  As with any morning after a rendezvous in the Void, he feels empty.  Drained.  As if he has walked into a room to complete a task and forgotten what he came for.  He has to do … _something_.  Find out what the Outsider had been on about.  Giving back all the coin.

He glances to the shelves where a few five-pieces have been scattered.  Not the payment he’d received for the empress’s assassination, but it is worth a look.  He lifts a single coin and flips it to see its face, squinting at Burrows’ hastily stamped profile.

But there is no Burrows there.

A chill arcs down his spine.

He holds a portrait of the Empress Jessamine.

Daud turns, grasping the metal in his fist until its edges bite his palm.  Old currency.  That’s all there is to it.  It has only been six months since the new ones were minted, and the plague has run rampant too quickly for the replacement process to be done in completion.

He dresses, the rustle of fabric a static track that his thoughts play over on loop.  He does not set down the coin, even as he pulls on his gloves and lays them against the sleeves of his shirt.  They lend a finality to his wardrobe, a certain closure.  He can’t face this with his skin exposed, not even the slightest square inch of vulnerability.

His steps rattle on the metal stairs as he digs clipped nails into supple leather.  Sunlight filters through into the room, washing across the red of his coat.  He turns his back to its warmth, seizing every sheet of paper that has been allowed to languish on any inch of desk or floor for the past six months.

The documents hold nothing of interest.  The note from Burrows is gone, but hadn’t Corvo taken that?  He can barely remember.

Before he can bother to search, one of his men appears in the doorway, completely uninvited.  Daud opens his mouth to chastise him, but immediately falls silent as the assassin inclines his head to scan the floor.  His expression is obscured by the mask, but his shoulders are hunched with confusion.  He defers to his leader, as always.

“Master – where are the plans?”

Daud glances down to the floor where the map of Dunwall Tower has lain torturing him for months.  Instead of wrinkled white paper and his own blockish script, he is greeted by the forgotten sight of worn blue carpet.  He whirls to the wall behind, where he’s posted the pictures of his targets.  Where Jessamine has stared out at him, beautiful and cold, since Burrows assigned him the contract.

Where there is now nothing but empty space, yellowing paper, and the ghost of a memory.

Daud turns back to the assassin.  He cannot know.  No one can know.  Their faith in him cannot be relied upon so indiscriminately.  They are loyal, but not blind, and he would not even believe himself with a story so implausible.

His answer is quiet, dangerous, and false.  “…I took them down.”  He pivots on his heel, setting his shoulders rigidly and staring pensively out the smudged, partially broken windows of the building to the city heights beyond.

“Leave me.”

 

* * *

 

By the time he’s finished the story, Jessamine has managed to even her breathing.  Corvo remains bowed over her, his hand twined loosely into her hair.  His eyes haven’t left hers.  He barely blinks for fear that she might vanish and leave him again.

After a moment of silence, he wonders if she is ready to speak.  He clears his throat and kisses her forehead, feeling her skin burn against his lips.

“…Can you tell me what’s wrong, Jess?”

She nods rapidly, blinking a few times before focusing on him with new resolve.  Another deep breath rattles in her throat as she inhales.

“My chest—it feels as if it’s being—“  She positions both hands over her chest and makes a tearing motion that terrifies the man watching.  “Punctured.  Shredded.”

Corvo can only swallow thickly and dip his head in response, watching her face for her continued permission as he gently lays a hand over her heart.

“Where does it hurt, love?”

Her next word is a whisper that rasps and echoes in his mind even as it sounds weakly in his ears.  Startled, he flinches away and blinks at her, trying to dispel the chill that has frozen his bones to the marrow.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers.  “I didn’t quite hear you.”

She grasps his wrist with an air of impatience and replaces his hand near the center of her chest, nodding.  “There.”

This time, he manages to make out the word, opening himself both mind and body to her voice.  The feeling is uncomfortable at first, dangerously intimate.  He feels as if she is seeing into his soul, and perhaps she is.  It makes him nervous.  There were fewer secrets to hide, the last time he spoke to her.  Now, they gather and loom in his heart like thunderheads, and he does not want them exposed.

They used to share everything with each other.

Shakily, he nods again.  His ability to aid her ends here.  There is only one person he can think of whom he trusts enough with his craft and with Jessamine’s life.

Corvo bites his lip and pins her under his stare.  “I’m going to bring a man here to help you.  His name is Piero Joplin.”

 

* * *

 

The inventor stoops over her bedside.  She has agreed to take a sleeping drug for the time being at Corvo’s insistence that it will numb the pain, or perhaps at the wide, imploring stare of those dark eyes.

Piero is closely supervised and has been forbidden from cutting her open.  When he inquires how he is supposed to discern anything of her condition without doing so, he is instructed very bluntly by the Royal Protector to “ _Deal with it_.”  The natural philosopher instead places his hand over her chest through the thin fabric of her camisole.  Corvo’s bristle of irritation at seeing another man’s hands there cannot be ignored, but he acknowledges that this is for a medical reason.  Yet all of Piero’s comments about The Golden Cat still somehow manage to flood into his mind.

He is drawn out of his murderous reverie by a sharp gasp followed by a low murmur of disbelief.  It is a moment before he realizes what has happened.  The seeds of incredulity blossom into life across Piero’s face as he straightens.  The frazzled inventor shakes his head and blinks owlishly, stunned.  He removes his spectacles, polishes them on his shirt, replaces them.  Apparently, the sight in front of him does not improve to his satisfaction.

“ _I_ did this.”  His eyes wander along the dirty creases of his palms before he clenches his hands into loose fists.  It is strange, to see him melancholy.  His exuberance has too often been taken for granted.

Corvo’s low brows knit together.  It is almost an accusation, certainly antagonizing.  He practically bristles in concern for his empress.  “What do you mean, _you_ did this?”

Piero shakes his head, mouths wordlessly before he can find the nerve for stuttering speech.  “I-- thought it was a dream.  But--”

He takes offense to the Serkonan’s blank stare.  His tone rises in urgency.

“Corvo.  It’s _him_.”

To his dismay, Corvo realizes exactly who _him_ is.  A belabored sigh disperses into the quiet.

There will be time to coddle Piero and discuss the matter later.  For now, Corvo keeps his words sharp and direct.  Jessamine is hurting and he is deeply confused.  It becomes more and more improbable that this ordeal is merely a dream.

He claps a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, startling him out of his awestruck trance.  He doesn’t want to confront the issue of blame at the moment.  He likes Piero far too much for that.  “Just promise me that you’ll try to fix it.”

At that, the philosopher glances up and meets Corvo’s eyes.  His face contains none of his former eager and earnest curiosity.  In its place is a hardness, a callousness, that he did not know the other man possessed.  “There’s no repairing it, Corvo.  It’s a wonder she isn’t dead already.”

“That can’t be,” he insists.  “There must be a way.”

A certain sadness is reflected behind the thick, round glasses.  He frowns, takes a step backward, toward the door.  “Try to enjoy the time that you can.”

* * *

He’s planned this mission before.  Not quite the same, no.  The last time, he’d had multiple men completing the operation with him.  The last time, Burrows had made sure that the guard on the gazebo was lifted and the empress was wide open to his attack.  The last time, he had sought to kill her, with no comprehension of the pain her murder would bring.  Or perhaps he simply had not wanted to consider it.  He knows now.

The sky is pregnant with rain.  It hangs heavy until its mists scrape the sharp peaks that jut up from the earth.  He’d been right about the weather, it seems.  He inhales a deep breath, feeling the cold smack against his face.  It is quite possible that this is a suicide mission.  Either he makes his way through the entire tower undetected or he abandons the quest completely.  No room for error.  The only man who he’s ever seen perform to that standard is Corvo Attano.

He’ll match him or die trying.

There’s no need for ammunition; projectile weapons would only attract attention.  So he unclasps both belts and sets them down on his dresser with reverence.  His sword, he keeps.  He would never enter a room without it.

It bothers him not to have plans.  He has always had plans.  But Attano, when he does use one, follows it almost arbitrarily, selecting which portions he will adhere to and making up the rest as he goes along.  If Daud is to match him, perhaps he will do just that.

 

 

Wisely or unwisely, he appears directly inside of the gazebo.  For once, he is reckless.  There are guards milling about, but he stops time before they can detect his presence, transverses over to the doors of the tower, and draws inside.  The map has been drilled into his skull and the location of Jessamine’s bedroom comes naturally to the forefront of his mind.  So easily accessible.  So _stupid._

She was absurdly easy to kill.  In other ways, impossible.  In a sense, he is still trying to murder her, and she will not die.  He will gladly trade one for the other now.

He reaches the balcony just as the servants begin to spring back into life below.  There is no guard posted.  The man who he expected, _craved_ seeing, is not here.  Extremely idiotic, once again.  He would very much like to lecture him on diligence one of these days.

Left alone with the empress, Daud pivots to face her bed.  There is a chair at her side where he decides to settle.  Her face is too sacred for a heathen like him to behold.  He finds himself glancing away.

When he killed her, he did not allow himself to linger.  Just pulled his sword from her still-living corpse and shoved her to the ground and let her failed Lord Protector deal with his grief, knowing that she was beyond saving.  He remembers that she was beautiful, as the books and pictures in his office will not let him forget.  Daud has never been able to recall what she’d looked like in person.  He has tried, but the memory does not materialize as anything but a tumult of splinters.  Only fragments of moments in a pool of blood, swimming like flotsam on the tide.  There was a letter on the ground.

The portrait had been done months ago, when she was in her prime.  When the Empire was strong – perhaps not at its strongest, its foundations shaky after the Morley Insurrection and the death of the former dynasty – but it had seemed that the worst was behind them.  Now, the veins stand out like so many rivers on the map of her hand.  Her lips are blue, her skin pale.  She is far too thin even without the cinching of a corset.  Worry grips his heart with iron fingers.

The Empress twitches and groans at the scratch of wood on carpet, shifting in her sleep.  There is only so much time to decide what he means to say.  He isn’t _like_ Corvo, that damned upstart who seems to be made almost entirely out of pure good intentions.  Maybe at one time, but not now.  His work has stained him in more ways than one.  And the fact that he has killed this woman, felt her body give beneath his blade, that he is directly to blame for her current agony – what is he supposed to say to her?  Apologies are for broken vases and spilt milk.  Not murder.

He will not apologize, Daud decides.  He will simply speak the truth.  As always.

He thought that he had broken himself of trepidation years ago.  To an aspiring felon, it was an emotion for the weak.  He is young again now, in doubt and in longing.  There is a soft click as he wets his lips and leans forward.  The tips of his gloves are pressed together as if in prayer.

“… Empress Jessamine?”

She opens her eyes and he stifles a gasp.  They are the same color as his own, a sort of storm-grey like the surface of the rippling sea.  The clouds outside mirror them, impersonating her.  He hadn’t noticed the color of her eyes on the day that he’d killed her.  It disturbs him that they are in any way alike.

The moment his image swims into view, she surges upward and opens her mouth - preparing, no doubt, to call for Corvo.  Daud clasps a hand over her face and frowns when she flinches away.  He rushes out the words before she can reconsider the benefits of screaming.

“I’m not going to hurt you.  If I were, you’d be dead already.”

Her muscles achieve the bare minimum of relaxation noticeable to the human eye and he feels her lips purse themselves tightly shut against his palm.  He pulls his hand away as if burned.  She wavers and lays back again, silent for the moment.  In her current state, she really has no choice but to do so, and it’s more than likely that she still thinks he’ll kill her.  For a man with Daud’s skill set, even his bare hands are a deadly weapon, and Jessamine is no fool.  It’s clear by the way her scowl needles him that she remembers.  And she hates him with such fervor that it’s all he can do to keep looking at her.

“Why are you here?”  The sentence rasps like sharkskin in her throat and her nose wrinkles in disdain.  She does not like to hear her voice break and crack, does not enjoy feeling inferior.  Daud can only imagine how filled with rage he would be in the same situation.

It’s a biting question, and he takes his time in putting together the answer.  There’s no use in trying to conceal anything from her.  He wonders how much she’s figured out for herself already.

“To see whether or not you were alive.”

There is no remorse in her voice.  His mere presence here seems to make her stronger.  She strikes like a bird of prey, imbued with enough venom to momentarily dispel her pain.  “To kill me again?”

He presses his lips together irritably.  “You already know the answer to that question.”  When no further accusations are forthcoming, he continues.  “It seems that the Outsider has resurrected you.  I thought that you might remember what happened prior to that.”  At that, Daud gives her a pointed look, curious.  What _does_ she remember?

She blinks and turns away, shaking her head.  Evading the question.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do,” he says.  There is no room for denial in his tone.

Cornered, she turns and pins him under her stare.  Her eyes narrow.  Yes, she does know, and she remembers.  But that does not mean that he will ever find out what wonders - or horrors - those eerily similar eyes have seen.  Daud isn’t worthy of that information, and that is not a fact that he has the evidence nor the gall to argue against.

Jessamine retaliates in kind, seizing control of the interrogation.  “How do you know about this?”

His nose twitches.  He turns aside again and lowers his voice.  “I’m the reason that it happened.”

She stiffens.  “You asked for this?”

“ _No_.”  He almost shouts to deny her assumption, forcing himself to relax as he completes the statement.  “He gave it to me.”  Daud exhales slowly, bends over and rests his elbows on his knees.  Would he have accepted the offer if it had been made?  But he knows the Outsider would never have given him the option.  The would-be scholar asks too many questions, makes things clear-cut and rigorous and _boring_.  His chaotic deity has more fun watching him squirm.

“Why?”

How many things that question could be asking.  He pauses briefly in thought and replies with a confession that has been perched on his tongue for six agonizing months, though it is not likely that it is the response she anticipated.

“I’ve regretted killing you since before you were cold in your grave.”

Her brows knit together in anger and her lips curl into a bitter frown.  Knowledge of his regret doesn’t in any way mitigate the horror of what he’s done; he knows it doesn’t.  Still, she asked, and he answered.

The door creaks open.  Corvo Attano draws his sword.

“Daud.”  There is a tone of surprise in his voice, but it is not quite pronounced as it should have been.  He suspected that this visit was approaching.  His eyes flick to Jessamine immediately, a moth to a flame.  Seeing her safe, he refrains from attacking for the time being.

Daud remains seated, regarding him with indifference.   The greeting is returned with a tight grimace that distantly resembles a smile.  “Corvo.”

“What are you doing here?”

He leans into the chair and stares back steadily.  “I think you know.”

There is a spike of tension which eases with every passing second.  Jessamine sits up and reaches for Corvo and he _sprints_ across the room to her and falls to his knees at her bedside.  Daud says nothing, does nothing, does not even glance at his weapon where it lays across the room.

“Are you all right?”  He casts a misgiving glance toward Daud which the assassin accepts as well-deserved.

She nods.  The vitality given her by Daud’s presence is nothing compared to the bright, luminous quality she has in Corvo’s.  “Yes.  I’m fine.  How is Emily?”

“She’s well,” he assures her.  “At lessons with her governess as we speak.”

Jessamine sighs in relief and lays back.  Both men remember the way she dove for her daughter in an attempt to shove back the little girl’s captors.  Just before Daud cuffed her across the face and shoved a blade through her abdomen.

Corvo stands and Daud straightens in kind.  There is a long silence as they appraise each other, cold.  Icy.  Daud doesn’t have time for this.  If someone needs to break and speak first, he’ll gladly have done with it.

“I had a visitor last night.”

Corvo’s eyes widen.  He shoots a glance at Jessamine that tells Daud all he needs to know.  As ever, the man’s thoughts and intentions read crystal clear across his face.  “Him?”

Daud clenches his jaw and confirms his suspicions with a helping of disdain.  “Who else?”  He turns to study Jessamine in kind, receiving a sour glare for his trouble.  “What’s he done to her?”

At this, Corvo hesitates.  She snaps.

“It’s none of your business what’s been done to me.” The blankets rustle as Jessamine struggles to pull herself upright.  She continues to face their visitor with a glare that seems capable of peeling the flesh off of his bones.

The man only sweeps an exasperated look over the two, colored with slight disbelief at their reticence.  “Just tell me.”

It is Corvo who breaks first.  Doing his best to ignore a murderous look from Jessamine, he explains everything.  Slowly, grudgingly.  As he goes on, Daud bites his tongue and quietly seethes.

There is a burning of guilt and _anger_ in him.  The sensation had begun to torture him months ago, but this has thrown fuel on the fire, stoked it into a blaze.  It twists the hot knife in his chest, wrenches into him.  But he’s had it easy.  He hasn’t been stabbed.  Hasn’t had his own heart pulled out and reassembled and shoved back inside of him.  It only feels that way.

And of the Outsider.  Why is he killing her again?  How many times must her death be relived?  It has been all he’s thought of for six torturous months, the warmth of her blood on his hands and the sound of her daughter’s screams ringing in his ears.

And Corvo Attano.  Him too.

He gets to his feet, clenches his fists at his sides, and begins to pace.  He _will_ fix this.  She will not be allowed to die again.

“Did he give a prognosis?”

“No.”  At this, Corvo shifts to look at Jessamine.  She seems frightened now, leaning up toward her protector.  Then she turns to glare at Daud and he backs away a step.  It’s clear they haven’t had time to discuss this in private.  He feels more like an intruder now than ever.

“I’ll give you a moment to settle your … _domestic issues_ ,” he remarks snidely, lazily raising his hands as he takes a single step back from the couple.  He ignores Jessamine’s reaction to his dry wit and retreats to a distant corner of the room.  They seize the opportunity at once.  He can hear them behind him, low voices murmuring back and forth.  She’s chastising him.  The phrase “keep me in the dark” wafts into his hearing.

When he feels Corvo’s hand on his back and whirls, however, the man’s face is passive and controlled.  Whatever transpired between the two moments ago has been boxed away and set aside to cope with later.  Daud can appreciate that.  The protector nods him over to the empress.  His hands find their way behind his back and clasp together loosely, almost as if he were standing at attention.  Facing her is like looking into a mirror.

Though she is sick and frail on what may be her death bed, Jessamine towers over him.  Her words are as cold and piercing as her eyes.

“What do you want from us?”

He averts his eyes and works his jaw back and forth for a long moment.  When he speaks, his voice rasps like metal on a grindstone.  “To help you.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” she counters instantly, still pinning him.

Imbued with a little more vivacity now, he snaps his head back up and goes cold again.  “It has everything to do with me.”

“Do you expect me to forgive you—“

Suddenly, he stoops over her bed and lowers his voice like a snake whispering through the grass.  His teeth are almost bared, every line in his neck starkly visible.

“ _I_ am the cause of this, Jessamine, and it may be that I can help you.  Or would you rather languish and die and let your daughter lose her mother a second time?”

Those words tug at her heartstrings.  He has them tangled around his fingers like some arcane puppeteer.

“I am not enough of a fool to ask you to trust me.  I wouldn’t expect you to forgive me.  But you _will_ listen to what I have to say.”

Much as it sounds like a command, it is not.  It is a wavering statement of hope, one which she could easily put an end to with a word to her bodyguard.  Daud doesn’t hold any illusions about which of them would come out ahead, even if his sword were not halfway across the room.  But she does not.  Empress to the core, Jessamine raises her head as far as her current faculties will allow and dips her chin for him to go on.  Taking it for her consent, he tells her exactly what he does not want to believe.

“This is not a matter of natural philosophy.  No surgery will save you.”

The news has little effect on her.  She nods, her expression firm and resolute.  While she does not trust Daud, she does trust Corvo, and he in turn trusts Piero.  Still, her tone is hard as iron and just as brittle.  He will have to do much more than reaffirm the unorthodox inventor’s appraisal of her impending death to find his way into her good graces.

“What do you suggest we do?”

He straightens, takes a deep breath, and considers their options.  How he wishes that more were available to them.  The only one remaining stares him in the face with mocking black eyes.  Finally, he grits his teeth and answers her, his words mumbled bitterly under his breath.  “You require immediate intervention from someone who knows the Outsider’s ways.”

It takes her a moment to digest what he’s said, the volume with which he speaks perhaps playing some part in that.  She raises both brows skeptically, biting with disdain.  “You?”

“No,” he growls back with perhaps unnecessary venom.

Her head quirks slightly to the side and her bodyguard draws a half step closer. “Then who?”

A tendon stands out in Daud’s neck as he tenses.  He turns to Corvo and jerks his chin.  The rasp of his voice, quiet before,  is now barely audible.  “…You know her.”


	3. Acceptance

Granny looks over their assembly with disconcerting alertness in her milky eyes.  She takes a step forward, lightly crunching her way across the carpet to raise an ancient hand to Jessamine’s face.  The ailing empress flinches away and Corvo corrects his stance to accommodate the shift in position, hefting her more securely into his arms.  The old woman is not dissuaded, pressing on with that voice like a broken music box.

“Hello, sweeting.  You’ve gained a little weight since I last saw you.”  She chuckles and clucks while circling around to close the gap between herself and Corvo, shaking fingers gripping the sleeve of his coat.  “And you’ve brought along my charming little helper.  I thought that I was the only woman in your heart, my dear.”

Finally, she comes to the red-garbed figure standing stiffly beside the two -- adjacent, but never quite _close_ to them.  Granny’s eyes find his face and linger on it.  She leans in slightly and focuses her sightless stare as if trying to catch a glimpse of his soul.

“And darling Daud.  It’s been so long since you’ve come to visit me.  You know, I was starting to worry that you’d never come back.  I had to give all of your presents to the Outsider’s new favorite.  I think he’s _my_ new favorite, too.”  A titter suddenly bursts from her throat, and she presses a hand to her mouth like a flirtatious courtier.  “There was a time when handsome young men used to bring _me_ presents, you know.”

Daud glowers, his upper lip curling slightly into a snarl.  “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

“Tsk tsk.”  She shakes her head gravely, wringing her hands.  “Only coming when you _want_ something from me, is that it, dearie?  Well, poor old Granny might just want something in return.”

“Now isn’t the time to bicker over debts and obligations,” he asserts, stepping forward to loom over her.  “This is the _Empress_ _of_ _the Isles_ , not some superstitious fishwife looking for a few bone charms.  If you don’t help her, she is going to die.”

Lines crease and deepen across the old woman’s face as she smiles and turns away, languidly batting a hand.  “Empresses come and go.  Granny is still here.  Granny is always here.”  She toddles to the sink and sighs dreamily.  The scrape of metal cuts the silence as she draws out a few rusted forks and knives, turning on the tap which runs no water and scrubbing them beneath it.  “The little birdies need feeding.  Who is going to feed the little birdies if Granny goes away?”

Another irritated growl signals Daud’s growing aggravation.  “You aren’t going anywhere, provided that you help us.  If not, I’ll send you straight to the Void myself.”

The silverware clinks and clatters as she continues her work, phantom sponge failing to scour away years of rot and rust.  “What makes you think that the Outsider will side with you, darling?”

“Letting her die will interfere with his plan.”  Daud certainly hopes that his statement is true.  Guessing the Outsider’s motives can be tricky at best, often impossible.  In this case, however, he believes that he has lighted upon them.  If he knows anything of his deity’s mind, they have been made transparent deliberately.

For a long moment, the only sounds that can be heard are the scrabbling of cutlery and low, singsong humming.  Huffing through his nose, he reaches forward to grasp her shoulder.

His hand hasn’t even touched her coat before she turns around, gazing not at but _through_ him, fixated on something which he cannot name.  “Oh, are you still there, dear?  Do your Granny a favor and get her book.  You know the one.”  She shifts her weight forward and lowers her voice conspiratorially.  “There’s an empress waiting for my help, you know.”

His light footsteps immediately fade away up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

How she finds the proper page, Corvo will never know, but there it is.  A diagram of an enlarged and bleeding heart is shown next to a passage in symbols which he cannot for the life of him decipher.  Daud looks over his shoulder and scans them casually, eyes sailing from right to left.  If he notices that the other man is examining him, he gives no sign.  Puzzled, Corvo tries again.

There is one thing, luckily, which he can make out.  Rather, three things.  His bare fingertip skates along the contours of the symbols, arranged in a triad at the center of the page.  They are like many he has seen before, enough that he can immediately recognize their purpose.  Suddenly, his view is blocked by a fragment of bone already carved into its characteristic triangular shape, placed upon the worn vellum by a tremorous hand.

“It’s about time my gentleman callers finally made themselves useful,” Granny croons with a smile.  Every face in the room remains slack with indifference, long beyond the point of surprise.

Corvo looks at the splinter of the former Bottle Street thug and…hesitates.  He’s seen the sailors at their craft many times, sat by their sides and talked while he watched them steadily carve the scrimshaw.  But he’s never learned, not truly, and is not at all confident in his ability to do an adequate job now.  Not with Jessamine’s life at stake.  If he doesn’t do it, though, who will?

He gathers his courage and resolve and reaches forward.  As soon as his tentative fingers brush the ivory, it is snatched away by a quick, gloved hand.

Stormy, grey-green eyes meet his own as if daring Corvo to deny him the right.  Daud has an inch or so of advantage, peering down at him with an expression neither fierce nor supplicant.  The Royal Protector regards him coolly for a moment before nodding and stepping back.  He knows that Daud would not be taking the job if he did not think that he could perform it impeccably.  Though there is a sting at not being able to provide it for her, the loyal servant still wants his empress to receive treatment of the highest standard.  Here is a man who craves perfection.

Daud receives a thick needle from Granny and positions it with fingers that know its shape and use.  Whether that knowledge stems from time served on a whaling ship, the arcane teachings of his legendary mother, or extended service to The Outsider, Corvo cannot guess.  A glance at the assassin’s face reveals nothing; the man refuses to meet his eyes or Jessamine’s.  He simply bends over Granny’s drawing and sets to work, glancing from the book to the surface of the charm.  His hand moves quickly and nimbly across the bone’s surface, etching the design in ghostly scratches.  At times, he scribes the image without even glancing at his work, instinctively tracing what he sees upon the artifact.

Jessamine worsens during that time and Corvo finds himself tending to her instead of spectating.  She has been slumped on one of Granny’s old mattresses for the majority of the visit, watching the happenings from afar and suppressing every potential cry of pain.  When he finally turns to look at her, however, Corvo sees that her cheeks are pale and her skin is ashen, her forehead wrinkled and mouth downturned in pain.  A pang of guilt strikes him for needing his hands free.

He bends down and tries to wrap his arms around her, but she twists out of his grip.  Though her strength is fading fast, she still has the power to wriggle from his grasp when truly determined.  He props his hands on his hips and raises a brow at her, and she scowls back.

“You’re in pain, Jess.  Let me help you.”

Her next labored breath doubles as a disdainful huff, and she tips her nose up into the air in that perfect, elegant, imperial way.  He knows instantly that he will lose this argument, as with almost every single one they have ever had.

“I’m perfectly fine where I am, Corvo.  There are more important things to worry about at the moment.”

That’s wrong, he wants to tell her.  There is never anything more important than she is.  Instead, he does what he has always been trained to do, bows and clears his throat and mumbles, “As you wish, Empress.”  He isn’t sure why the deep-seated formality has chosen to come to the surface at this time – surely, the company they are in at the moment couldn’t care less about these observances, and Corvo has never considered them anything more than a nuisance himself.

His hair falls into his eyes as he dips his head and he blows it out of the way; she catches him in the act and lights up and _smiles_ at him.  He grins back and then they are both chuckling softly, though she has to clutch at her chest and gasp for air almost before she has even begun.  The fracture in his heart spreads its roots a little deeper.

In the other room, Daud sets down his tools.  Prompted by the soft clink of glass and metal, Corvo whirls to see the assassin digging through Granny’s shelves.  Eventually, he emerges with a vial of blue-black ink, dabbing a drop on the tip of his glove and scrubbing it across the charm’s surface.  The designs appear like magic, clear and wet in black on white.  There is a glimmer in the symbols which any less superstitious man would write off as merely a trick of the light.  Corvo glances at Granny for confirmation and beholds only a furtive smile as she gazes without seeing at the charm in Daud’s hand.

 

* * *

 

Runes are drawn on her floor with the blood of a few hapless rats.  Candles are lit and redistributed.  Daud drags the mattresses from their place hidden away in the corners and lays them side by side.  Corvo cocks his head and stares, tracking Daud as he moves across the room, but the assassin keeps his back turned, silently and brusquely gesturing toward his handiwork.  Corvo steps forward and lays Jesamine down with all the rapt tenderness of a star-crossed lover.

Daud vanishes up the stairs once again and they hear the sound of tearing fabric.  When he emerges, the man holds a ragged piece of Granny’s carpet rolled into a bundle.  His face is a mask of apathy as he tosses it down as a makeshift pillow for the empress.  Corvo is appalled, Jessamine more so, though her lips do not form a frown, but a grimace, and her brows are arched like raven’s wings.

It is becoming harder and harder for her to speak, but she never passes up a chance to share her suspicion toward the man who killed her.

“I don’t … trust you.  Why are you … doing this for us?”

He glares.  “Was I not clear enough?”

She says nothing more; she doesn’t need to.  The silence is enough, slipping in between the two of them like sand in an hourglass.  Daud’s shoulders are thick and heavy, set forward slightly in a predatory stance as he scowls at her.  Something breaks in his countenance then.  He disappears almost immediately, leaving the empress staring into the empty space where he stood only moments ago.  She glances at Corvo and sees him gawking at the same spot, his mouth gradually curling into a frown and eyebrows knitting in anger.

“There’s your answer,” he says finally, turning to Jessamine. Each word is punctuated with utmost resentment.   “At least he left the bone charm behind.”

She nods slightly, turning her head away.  “It’s as much,” she forces out with a deep, wheezing breath, “as I expected of him.”

The moment of quiet is interrupted by a small ripple in the air near them.  A puff of black smoke clears to reveal Daud once more, expression dark and worn book clutched in his hand.  The atmosphere of shared hatred fades away almost instantly and is replaced by one of blank surprise.  Jessamine’s eyes widen and she tips her head back to look at him, but before she can ask what the tome contains, it has been thrust into her lap, open to a center page.

“Read it.”

The volume slips from her fingers, which are rapidly losing their dexterity.  Corvo kneels beside her and lifts the journal himself, helping her to support it.  He keeps his eyes respectfully averted, studying not the words but Jessamine’s face as her eyes flick quickly from side to side.  Eventually, they reverse, slow, widen, peruse the same portion over and over again.  This process is repeated more times than Corvo can count until she glances up at Daud with mouth open and jaw slack.  He nods once and she says no more.

The journal, she closes quietly and hands back to him.  He tucks it under his arm and departs from the room.

 

* * *

 

It’s near midnight when Granny finally returns to them.  She has insisted upon conducting the ritual at this time, in fact – something about the witching hour, when magic is thickest in the air.  There is a full moon and a strong tide, and Corvo wonders if these circumstances are a mere coincidence.  Daud has no illusions about the matter.

“Where have you been?” the older man demands.

She smiles and produces a dagger cradled in a sheath of engraved ivory.

Corvo’s lips part in shock.  Daud remains as impassive as if chiseled from stone.

“Which one of my lovebirds is going to give his heart to Empress Jessamine?”

Corvo frowns, though he takes a step forward and pushes his chest out, already and perhaps subconsciously offering himself for her.  “I don’t understand.”

“Human sacrifice,” Daud says.  When the bodyguard turns back to look at him, he meets his eyes evenly.  “There’s no fixing her old heart.”

Granny Rags interrupts him with a bloodthirsty giggle.  “One of my lovely handsome boys needs to carve up his pretty little friend.”

For an instant, the Royal Protector refuses to believe it.  But Daud, by his own assertion, has never lied to him, and that, at least, is worth some small degree of trust.  He reaches down and fumbles to remove his coat.  A gloved hand stops on his upper arm and creases the navy and gold fabric, grey eyes burning into his.

“I’ll do it.”

Corvo twitches and furrows his brows.  His head shakes from side to side abruptly, and his hands slowly resume their action again.  “There’s no need for that.  I’m more than willing--”

The other man snaps and he is cut off unceremoniously.  “You heard me the first time.”

They hold a brief staring contest.  Corvo’s brows knit in meditation.  Will he really give his life instead of this man’s?  One who he so recently, grudgingly, spared.  What good can that bring?

Emily is at home.  Jessamine loves him.  Daud is not only willing, but desperate to be the woman’s sacrifice.

Corvo nods.  Daud jumps into a debriefing without missing a single beat.

“The heart is right here.”  He points to his own chest, nearer the center than Corvo would have guessed.  “You’ll have to crack my ribs first.  Pry up the sternum as best you can.  After that, it doesn’t matter.  It’s not like I’ll live through this, anyway.  As for Jessamine…”  He draws the bone charm from a pouch and holds it out flat in the palm of his hand.  “Press that over the wound when the transfer is complete.  It won’t be the surgery that saves her.”

There is nothing that Corvo can do except dip his head again, take the offered charm, and brand those words into the nexus of his consciousness.  They overlap and burn and consume all other concerns.

His finality is disconcerting.  Something in his eyes is fierce, yet tame.  There is an intense silence before Daud turns away, and Corvo feels a burden has been lifted from his shoulders when that focus no longer hovers on his face.

He knows that he is going to his death.

Daud rolls his shoulders and sheds his coat, tossing it aside.  His back is still to the room, but he must feel their gazes boring into him.  He reaches up to unbutton his shirt, and that’s when he turns again.  Sees Jessamine watching this time and locks stares with her.  Corvo glances away from the look that passes between them.

The room is filled with men who will die for her.

* * *

As for the knife – it is a beautiful thing of the sharpest, blackest glass.  Corvo tilts it from side to side in the light and squints intently at its surface.  He can barely see the edges, tapering off into oblivion.  It slices open his finger almost before he touches it, and the cut is so thin that blood fails to well from his skin.

Daud lies stiffly next to Jessamine, his shirt hanging loose around his back and shoulders.  There is no cushion to support his head, not even of the rudimentary sort which he has presented to the empress.  His eyes are tilted straight up toward the ceiling and fixed on its cracked and broken surface.  Outsider knows what he sees there.

Corvo kneels beside him with knife in hand.  Adrenaline is flaming in his bloodstream and pounding in his ears.  He averts his eyes so he will not see the other man shaking.  “Thank you, Daud.”

The assassin reaches up and takes him by the arm, squeezing mercilessly until Corvo looks at him.  His words are sharp and deliberate, spat like curses from the violent slash of his mouth.  “Don’t ever thank me.”

Corvo nods and shifts out of Daud’s grip.  “As you like.”  He glances down at the assassin's hands, gloves crinkling and cracking from the force with which he clenches his fists.  “Do you want something to--?”

The rasping growl and singsong warble sound in unison.  “ _Nothing_.”

Daud falls silent and allows Granny to finish.  “We require a waking sacrifice.  What’s the point of giving yourself up if you can’t even feel the pain?”

She meanders from the room chuckling and leaves them in silence.  Corvo looks down at Daud and is met with a scowl.

“ _Do it_.”

The Royal Protector wavers until Daud grips his wrist and guides it to his own chest.  At last, he takes a deep breath, braces himself, and sinks the tip of the knife into the other man’s skin.

For a long while, Daud manages to suppress the scream, swallowing it into the depths of his throat and allowing nothing but a muffled groan to escape.  But eventually the searing of pain seeps through his flesh and burns into his consciousness, into the very core of his being.  He holds himself in place with the thinnest fiber of control, clinging to decades of rigorous discipline as the only thing which allows him to endure this moment without being torn completely asunder.  The sound of dull cracking fills the room and he feels his ribs being pried up and broken.

He whimpers.  He wheezes and pants for breath and bites his tongue until he chokes on his own blood and saliva.  He clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth fracture and crack.  He is more animal than man in that moment, a beast being eaten alive.  It is behavior that might otherwise fill him with shame, but there is honor in this, and dignity.  Daud severely doubts that any man would be able to control himself completely as his own beating heart was torn from his body.  He is working a miracle simply by holding himself in place without restraints.

His mind, inexplicably, is more perfectly serene than it has ever been.  Daud has never been a man who feared death.  He is enveloped in the sort of focus that comes with the preparation for a routine kill, the familiar sensation of something so irrefutably _mandatory_ that the idea of escape has never so much as cast a shadow across his consciousness.  The loss of a life and the rush of adrenaline that follow in its wake, the jitters in his hands that contrast with the murderous determination that is the solid, unbroken core of his psyche.  This will be the last time he feels this way.  The very last time.

There is red everywhere.  It’s always been his favorite color.  And the red is beautiful, beautiful.  It splashes across his vision as the knife continues its work.  The final veins and arteries are severed – he feels them _give_ – and then it is free.  He is free.

And as the blood overflows from his chest and onto the floor and the edges of his sight begin to go dark, he gathers what strength he has left and turns to Jessamine, his eyes on her face.  His reach is just long enough for him to take her fingers in his, but by the time he has entwined them, he discovers that he is not strong enough to squeeze.

She seizes like a child onto his hand and her touch is warm and soft and _grateful_.  Her eyes are glassy and rimmed with red and her lips move with whispered verses.  It has been worth it, he decides.  All this suffering has been worth it, for—

Then all goes dark and his body goes limp and she is left clutching weakly at the shell of what has only moments ago been a man.  A tiny sob rises from her chest, broken.  Relief?  Sadness?  Regret?  Fear?

Black smoke rises into the air and obscures her sight.  It sparkles with pricks of light like stars, twinkling.  She forgets where she is for the moment and simply watches, enraptured.  There are things she sees there of which she will tell no one as long as she lives.  There are things to make her heart shine with wonder.

Where Daud’s body has been, nothing remains.  Even his blood has disappeared, evaporated into oblivion.  The hairs stand up on the back of Corvo’s neck and he feels a presence draw near from behind.

 “Quickly now, while it’s _fresh_.”  Granny titters again, leering.

Corvo looks down at the pulsing organ in his hands with horror, coated in blood up to the elbow.  Jessamine’s eyes dilate with the anticipation of seeing the operation she has just witnessed being performed on Daud repeated on her.  The fact that she will get to live while he did not makes no difference to her now – the trepidation is numbing, pressing on her chest like a lead weight.  How desperately Corvo wants to reach out and comfort her, warm the flesh that has gone cold and clammy with sweat and fear.  But there is no time.

No time.  Of course.

It is blessing of mercy that he had not been able to afford the other man who shared the Outsider’s mark.  He clenches his left hand, feeling the air grow still around him.  With hands practiced in the art of killing and steady even in these dire circumstances, he makes the incision.  The sound of cracking ribs disappears into the still, muffling vacuum, and he carves the heart from her chest as Piero must have done not long ago.

He sets Daud’s gift into place, makes sure it’s in the right position.  Will it matter?  He doesn’t know.  There are fragments of bone inside the cavity, but he wasn’t instructed to deal with them.  There are no clamps, no sutures.  Blind faith is all he has.

Magic is the operative word here, and he will not ask how this is intended to work.  All he needs to know is that it does, and there is a certain superstition against discovering the source of this power.  As if knowing will stop it from working and destroy the last bizarre hope that he clings to.

He molds ribs and skin and muscle back into place as best he can.  To end it, a bone charm, pressed over the flap of her skin beneath which Daud’s heart now lies, its pulsing all but stilled.  Will it seal?  Can this truly work, or is it all simply folly, a ritual on par with those Sokolov attempts in the dank recesses beneath the Abbey?

The air is still, and he holds his breath.  Light and color flare as the march of time continues.

The bone sinks into her skin, leaving behind the three small runes, printed in squid’s ink.  They shine in blue and yellow, then go dark again, tattooed upon her skin.

“Thank the Outsider,” he breathes.

A quiet, haunting, _amused_ voice echoes through the room.

“You’re welcome.”

 

 

It is hours later when Jessamine finally opens her eyes.  They’re red and bleary and puffy, but their edges crinkle with happiness as soon as she sees his face.

Corvo nearly shouts in relief and leans forward as close as he can.  His hands are still caked with dry blood and his knees are aching from his vigil beside her.

“How do you feel, Jess?”

She laughs quietly and tears spill down the sides of her face.

“I’ve never felt so strong.”

 

* * *

 

They take their time about leaving, almost drunken with joy.  She glances often toward the spot where Daud once lay when she thinks that Corvo isn’t looking.  Finally, he catches her at it, searches the house until he finds the journal and presses it into her hands.  She wraps her fingers around it protectively and holds it close against her heart.

Corvo picks up Daud’s discarded coat and dusts it off.   It seems wrong to leave it here to rot away with Granny, to let it be forgotten amongst the rusting silverware and crumpled trash, perhaps thrown off of her balcony with the rest of the garbage.  After a moment’s debate, he folds it up and tucks it under his arm, not sure at the moment what he intends to do with it.  But it will be remembered.


	4. Epilogue

It is not until many years later that he knows what he must do.

It is Corvo who suggests the perfect first name when Emily’s son is born.  It is Corvo who appoints himself as chief storyteller during the young boy’s formative years, who solemnly tells him his favorite story almost every night, of a man who wasted his life in sin, yet found a way, in the end, to redeem himself.  It is Corvo who whispers of the marks on Jessamine’s chest, the heart that still beats stout and strong beneath them.  It is Corvo who, when the boy’s shoulders have grown broad enough to fill it, offers him the old red coat.

It is Corvo who smiles as David takes the throne, whose lined face cracks with joy a decade later when he receives his imperial title.

The Merciful.


	5. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the original ending for Recompense which I toyed with briefly before shunting it aside for a cheerier one. There are other reasons but they'd only bore you so we'll leave it at that.  
> Warning: contains suicide and an additional two major character deaths.

He sets Daud’s gift into place, makes sure it’s in the right position.  Will it matter?  He doesn’t know.  There are fragments of bone inside the cavity, but he wasn’t instructed to deal with them.  There are no clamps, no sutures.  Blind faith is all he has.

Magic is the operative word here, and he will not ask how this is intended to work.  All he needs to know is that it does, and there is a certain superstition against discovering the source of this power.  As if knowing will stop it from working and destroy the last bizarre hope that he clings to.

He molds ribs and skin and muscle back into place as best he can.  To end it, a bone charm, pressed over the flap of her skin beneath which Daud’s heart now lies, its pulsing all but stilled.  Will it seal?  Can this truly work, or is it all simply folly, a ritual on par with those Sokolov attempts in the dank recesses beneath the Abbey?

The air is still, and he holds his breath.  Light and color flare as the march of time continues.

Her eyes flutter open.  Her bleeding chest rises and falls, frantic and shallow, trying to pack air into organs that are rapidly failing.

“No.  Jess.  _Jess_!”  And her eyes roll back into her head and he’s left screaming, _screaming_ , as the beating of Daud’s heart dies in her chest and the sluggish drip of blood continues to stain the white of her shirt.  “ _Please!”_

And the tears come hot and fast now, and he presses the bone charm into her skin with his palm, leaning all of his weight upon it, hearing her ribs crack under the pressure.  His voice howls down Bottle Street and reaches the waterfront, waking every sleeping soul.

There is no respite from his grief.  No words.  The hole in his chest where his empress once was is as deep, as dark, as vast and hopeless and unchanging as the Void.  Emptiness.  Hollowness.  Anguish.  How can he live while Jessamine dies?  How can he do this a second time?

The seconds wash over him like a raging tide.  They flood his lungs and choke him and immerse his soul in the greatest agony.  Her eyes are blank and beautiful and unseeing and he screams again, dashes the bones of his hands to gravel on the floorboards.  His voice grates and collapses in on itself until he can no longer make a single sound.

Not a single tear falls.

He would offer anything.  His life, every life in the city, his body, his soul, his identity, his existence, each and every fiber of his being he would give for her.

Why has she gone while he still survives?

 

* * *

 

They bury Corvo beside her.

It is too much for a girl of ten to bear.  Emily steals away from the tower in the dead of night and curls between their headstones, weeping.  The guards do not touch her.  They turn their faces half away, let the moonlight watch over them and illuminate their own tears.  Not a soul in Dunwall bears the news with dry eyes.

The little girl cries herself to sleep with her head propped awkwardly against the pale stone of her mother’s grave.  Strong arms lift her and carry her inside, laying her down in her bed with a ghostly touch.  When she wakes, the shadows in the corner of her room look back at her.  The scent of saltwater clings to her hair.


End file.
